Twisted Ideas of Romance
by Cheeky Slytherin Lass
Summary: "It will be romantic, won't it? Dying together." :: In which Sketch still doesn't get the hint and takes things much too far.:: For Emmy.


**Warnings: General creepiness and utter depravity (possibly more so than the canon Sketch), suicide, and attempted murder**.  
**AN: 10/100 fandoms written for. This is my first attempt at Skins fanfiction, so sorry if I've butchered it. Written for the lovely Emily who introduced me to the beautiful heartache of the show. Cheers, darling**.

"No, James," Maxxie laughs into his mobile. "I won't miss it. No, I'm fucking on my way now. You and me'll be dancing in the shadow of Big Ben soon enough. Yeah, love you, too. Ten minutes. Bye."

Smiling, he closes his phone, pausing to look at it for a moment. London is waiting. A new start, a new life. He finds his smile broadening into a grin.

"I always liked it when you smiled like that," comes an all too familiar voice that turns his stomach acidic and wipes away his smile. "Always thought it made you look lovely."

Maxxie turns his gaze to Sketch, fingers curling inward to form angry fists. "I'm not in the mood," he says sharply, starting to move forward.

She reaches out, gripping his shoulders and keeping him in place. For a moment, Maxxie wonders what it would be like to hit her. He's almost certain it would be just as satisfying as his dreams of dancing in London.

"No, I just..." She hesitates and looks down nervously. "I wanted to apologize."

"You stalked me, nearly poisoned Michelle, and used my best mate as a fucking substitute goldfish. I don't think sorry really cuts it."

"Not for that. For this."

There's a sharp blow to his head, then darkness.

OoOoO

His vision is blurry when he blinks his way his way back into the waking world. "My head..."

"I am sorry about that," Sketch says, sitting at his feet. "But it's the only way I could keep you here."

Maxxie tries to move, only to find himself restrained. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I can't let you just leave, you see," she explains, her voice a little too calm for his liking. "Not you. Anwar will end up staying, but it's not the same, is it? He's not you."

He grits his teeth, tugging against his binding. She's got them tight, and he can barely even wiggle his wrists.

"And I thought it wouldn't be nice to be alone. Even if I kept you here, it wouldn't be real, would it?"

She moves away, and Maxxie tries again. If he can just loosen them, maybe he can escape.

But she's back in only a few seconds, holding up a pill bottle. "It will be romantic, won't it? Dying together." Sketch smiles at the thought, shaking the bottle. "I've already written your note for you. I've memorized your handwriting, Maxxie. I think you'll find it quite good."

With a wave a nauseating disgust, Maxxie spits at her. "You're sick!"

"I had hoped to-" She giggles and slides her hand under his shirt, scratching her nails lightly over his stomach. "But you still don't seem very willing..."

"I'm gay, you cow!"

"I know," she sighs, pulling her hand away, her attention returning to the bottle. "It won't be a very pretty death. I'm sorry about that. But I didn't want you bruised or bloody. It's not right."

He wants to point out that nothing about this is right, but he knows she won't see sense. Instead, he focuses on his restraints. She notices.

"Don't worry. I won't leave you like that. I just can't risk you running off right now."

Her hand finds his jaw roughly, forcing his mouth open. "Don't fight it. It's going to be okay," she soothes, dumping a few pills into his mouth. "Swallow."

Maxxie does so grudgingly, eyes narrowed at her.

"Good boy."

More pills. Swallow.

Maxxie begins to think death might not be so bad compared to this.

His body begins to feel light, and he falls slack. His stomach burns like someone has forced embers inside him.

"Even if I was straight, I never would've loved you," he slurs, turning his head to the side as he spits up something acidic.

Sketch's face hardens, and she unties him. "You might have," she says, taking his newly freed hands and pressing them to her chest. "You might have enjoyed this if things were different."

He starts to answer, but a fresh jolt hits, and twists his torso, dry heaving.

"It won't be long now," she whispers, pushing her fingers through his hair. "We'll be together, Maxxie. In the end, at least."

She pulls away, and Maxxie sees a flash of something small and silver. "It's going to be beautiful. You'll see," Sketch says, drawing the blade across her left wrist, then her right.

Maxxie manages to roll off the bed, elbows colliding painfully with the floor and breaking his fall.

"Don't fight it, Maxxie," she says again. "It's the way it has to be."

But he's already belly crawling towards the door. With any luck, the blood loss will slow her down.

"You can't!"

He climbs unsteadily to his feet, trembling fingers wrapping around the doorknob. His body feels weak and shaky, like it's not his own. Only the searing pain in his stomach and the vomit snaking its way forcibly up his throat remind him that this is happening to him and not someone else. "Piss off," he grinds out, opening the door and stumbling out.

He hears footsteps behind him, but he doesn't stop. A little further, and he'll be okay. A few dozen more steps, and he'll be free.

"Maxxie! I love you!"

He can hear the sob clear in her voice, but he feels no pity, and he doesn't turn around. He staggers, hands splayed against the walls and furniture, desperate for an anchor.

After what feels like hours, he reaches the front door.

"You'll die!" Sketch calls, a pitiful heap in the hallway. "You'll die, and they'll find our notes, and they'll know!"

Maxxie wraps an arm over his stomach, his free hand pushing open the door. He steps outside, doubles over to throw up, then tumbles, eyes closing and darkness engulfing him once again.

OoOoO

Maxxie opens his eyes, the antiseptic smell and mechanical beeping of a hospital overwhelming him. "What?"

Arms fall over his body, awkwardly hugging his torso. It takes several seconds to recognize Jal, but when he does, Maxxie smiles. "Hey."

"Hey," she half laughs, kissing his forehead.

"Am I dead?"

"You're not getting rid of us that easily," Jal says, a pained smile on her lips.

"How'd I get here?"

"Anwar. He went to tell you goodbye, but you didn't show up. James thought you'd run away, but Anwar figured something was wrong."

"Sketch-"

"We know."

"Dead?"

"Yes."

Maxxie nods, eyes closing as he leans back into his pillow. His throat is too scratched and raw to say more, but his broad grin is enough.


End file.
